The golden strike fell like the sun itself.
It wasn't a swing—it was judgment. His sword, wrapped in golden blaze, cut downward as though it would split the earth. The heat struck first, burning the air to cinders before the blade could even reach.
Elira's body screamed at her to move, to dodge, to let the silver flame tear free. Her chest heaved, the ember's whisper now deafening.
Burn. Burn or die.
She clenched her teeth, her fingers white on the hilt of her sword. Her knees refused to steady, her body was too battered to rise. The only thing keeping her upright was raw defiance—and the three who stood before her.
Marcell moved first.
With a hoarse cry, he hurled himself into the golden fire, his battered blade blazing red. Sparks showered as he caught the strike on his weapon, the impact reverberating through the Arena like thunder.
The shockwave blasted outward, knocking fragments of molten stone across the battlefield. Marcell staggered, blood running down his arm, but he did not fall. His teeth were bared, his voice a roar.
"You'll go through me first!"
Serenya's crimson blade slashed from the side, her fire carving arcs of molten steel that screeched against the golden blaze. She was relentless, her strikes fast and merciless, but the golden-haired boy's fury swallowed them, his power overwhelming hers with sheer force.
Vaelith's shadows surged next, twisting upward into chains of black flame that wrapped the boy's legs, slowing his advance. The air grew heavy with the clash of elements—gold clashing with red and black, heat and darkness and fury all spiraling around Elira.
But even together, they faltered.
The golden flame roared, shattering Vaelith's shadows, throwing Serenya back with a burst of light. Marcell dropped to one knee, his blade snapping with a sickening crack.
And still, the boy pressed forward.
His golden eyes fixed on Elira, filled not with contempt now, but obsession.
"You will burn," he snarled. "And your flame will be mine to extinguish."
Elira's vision blurred. Her friends' voices reached her through the roar of fire, distant and fragile.
Stand… please stand…
She wanted to move, to rise, to fight with them. But her body refused. Her arms trembled, her lungs clawed for air. The ember within her pulsed wildly, desperate to consume everything.
Let me free, it begged. Let me end this for you.
Her teeth sank into her lip until blood filled her mouth. If she let it out now, if she gave it everything it wanted, she would win—yes. But at what cost? She had felt it in Chapter 18: the pull toward nothingness, the urge to burn even those she loved.
Her flame was not kind. It was hunger.
And yet—what choice did she have?
The golden-haired boy raised his sword again, his golden blaze coiling around him like a storm. "Die, silver pretender!"
He leapt—an arc of gold, descending.
Elira's heart thundered.
She forced her hand to her sword.
The ember roared in delight.
Silver light erupted.
But not from her.
It burst outward in a circle around her, a shield rather than a blade. For the first time since awakening, the silver flame did not lash out wildly—it wrapped around her body like armor, translucent wings of light flickering into existence for a heartbeat before fading.
The golden strike slammed into it.
The world shattered.
The shield cracked, splintered, then burst, silver sparks scattering across the battlefield like stars. But it was enough—the golden strike was slowed, its fury diminished.
Marcell surged forward in the opening, slamming his broken blade against the boy's chest with a roar. Serenya's crimson fire carved into the ground, forcing the boy back a step. Vaelith's shadows whipped upward again, binding his arm for an instant before burning away.
Together, they forced him to stumble.
Elira's chest heaved. Silver sparks still clung to her skin, burning faintly against her wounds. The flame inside her pulsed differently now—less like hunger, more like… warning.
A second heartbeat.A chain waiting to snap.
Above, the nobles erupted.
"She manifested a shield—!""No, that was the Sovereign's aspect—it cannot be mistaken!""She is no aspirant, she is the heir of fire itself!"
The instructor's eyes gleamed faintly, but his voice was calm. "Not heir. Rival."
The golden-haired boy staggered, his eyes wild with fury. He raised his sword again, golden blaze surging, but his body wavered, his wounds dragging at him. Her flame had scarred him in ways no one else's could.
"Silver… will never surpass gold," he growled, though doubt now crept into his voice.
Marcell spat blood at the ground. "Looks to me like it already has."
Serenya's crimson eyes narrowed, her blade leveled. "Touch her again, and you'll lose more than your pride."
Vaelith said nothing, his shadow curling tighter, sharper, hungrier.
For the first time, the golden-haired boy hesitated.
And Elira, trembling, raised her head. Silver still flickered faintly around her, scars glowing faintly against her skin.
She whispered, voice rough but steady.
"I won't… burn for you. Not now. Not ever."
The ember within her pulsed, not with hunger—but with agreement.
The Arena roared.
Half the crowd screamed her name, half screamed for her death. The nobles above argued so loudly their voices shook the chamber.
And in that chaos, a bell rang.
The Trial was over.
The instructor's voice carried, cold and undeniable.
"Enough. Those who yet stand shall advance. Those who fall… are ash."
The battlefield froze.
The golden-haired boy staggered, golden fire flickering uncertainly around him. His eyes burned with hatred, but he did not strike again.
Marcell slumped to the ground, exhausted but grinning weakly. Serenya lowered her blade with visible reluctance, crimson flame hissing out. Vaelith's shadows slid back into the cracks of the scorched stone.
And Elira—silver sparks fading from her skin—finally let her knees give out.
She collapsed into the ash.
The last thing she heard before darkness claimed her was the crowd chanting, torn between worship and terror.
"Elira!""Silver flame!""Monster!"
Her eyes closed. The ember inside her pulsed once, twice—then went silent.